Page 22 of These Vile Hearts

“The room is nice. Not a huge fan of the locked door, though.”

She smiles with a little less than half her face now. “A precaution. You understand.”

“Do I?”

Her smile vanishes. “No, I don’t suppose you would.” She places a wooden goblet before me filled with deep green wine. “Care for a drink, Miss Sinclair?”

Don’t drink the wine.

This phrase was scribbled over and over in my dad’s journal. Enough for it to become a bit of a mantra. Until now, I’ve never been offered any wine.

“I don’t drink,” I lie.

A shadow shifts in her golden eyes. “Have some food, then. I hear you hardly ate anything.”

“As I told yourprotectors, I can’t eat without insulin.”

“Oh?” Something in the way she’s looking at me says she already knew this. Yet she left me in there anyway. “But you have it now.” She nods to my lap, and my hand tightens on my bag.

“Yes.” I resist the urge to glance Atlas’s way.

“So? Use it. Eat.”

Every single eye is on me as I pull my meter and bottle of test strips out. My blood sugar has dropped to 138, and the slight tremor in my hands tells me it’s tumbling its way down. I could probably just eat the meat and cheese and be fine without dosing, but there are plenty of carbs on the table that can balance out the extra insulin. Dark breads slathered in honey, chocolate studded with dried fruits. Plus, I don’t want them to think I was lying about needing it.

Filling a syringe with only one unit, I plunge the needle into my stomach as the dryads watch. The queen snaps her fingers at them. “Eat your meals. You’re making the girl uncomfortable.”

Obediently, the protectors all look away, serving themselves and digging into their food without silverware.

The queen takes a long sip of her wine, watching me deposit everything back into the bag. “That must be quite a bother.”

“Quite.” I load my own plate with herbed potatoes, honeyed bread, greens, and roasted venison. “But the shots aren’t the difficult part.”

“Mmm. And what would you sayisthe difficult part?”

“For me, the cost mostly. The fact that, in this country, only the rich and people with decent insurance can afford all the supplies it takes to successfully manage this disease. And then it’s the constant awareness of what I eat and how I’m feeling and how much insulin I’ve taken or not taken. Preparing for how much activity I’m going to do that day and making sure I have enough candy with me in case I go low. Just…everything.” I tear off a chunk of venison with my hands and drop it into my mouth, nearly swallowing it whole. “If the Big Pharma assholes actually gave a shit about people like me, then I could deal with all that other stuff. But,alas, here I am.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, as if processing my words. I realize she likely doesn’t know what insurance or Big Pharma is, but frankly Idon’t care to explain. I hardly understand any of it myself. All I know is they have all the power, and I have none.

“Well, you’re in luck, Maddox Sinclair.” Something flickers in the queen’s expression. “I have a mission for you. And, if you complete this task, I will give you what you requested. Your health. Freedom from this disease. Money. Everything you asked for.”

My hand stops reaching for another bite and drops to the table. “What’s the mission?”

The Myrtle Queen’s face lifts in a half grin again. She pulls a scroll of paper out of her weapons belt and hands it to me.

I scan the bold black lettering at the top of the page. “What’s a Crown Masquerade?”

“It’s a celebration in the Redwood Court to kick off many more revelries before the Sylveris Solstice, which takes place in a fortnight.”

Sylveris, I’ve learned from my dad, is what the fae in this area have dubbed all the coastal forests of Oregon, Washington, and California. From what I can tell, it’s split into two territories: the Redwood Kingdom and the Myrtlewood Kingdom. I know they both work together and…against one another. I’m guessing if the last thing my father was ordered to do was kill the Redwood King, they aren’t on the best of terms.

“Aren’t you…at war?”

Her lip twitches. “Not anymore.”

No need to go to war when you have humans to do your dirty work, I suppose.

“If you’re not at war, then why did you have my father kill the last king?” I challenge.